Opening weekend, I saw Avengers: End Game with my son, Avery.

THERE ARE SOME SPOILERS AHEAD.
READ NO FURTHER IF YOU HAVE NOT SEEN AVENGERS: END GAME.

A few days after seeing the film, I saw the following meme courtesy of someone named ‘kaz.’ , and  loved it, and immediately reposted it on my Facebook page (above). 

Above the meme, I said something about how much I loved this message in the movie… but how “Fat Thor” is just WRONG.   (Because…. ABS.)   Then, a young friend of mine responded with something like this:

"I don't mind Fat Thor. I mind them (Marvel) making his weight a joke." 

​I felt in my bones that seeing Thor as the butt of a "fat joke” was wrong, but I didn't have time or energy to get into it with her... but, now, I do!  

Look, Marvel didn’t make Thor’s weight a joke.
They gave us THE FACTS: 

Thor is now fat.
He drinks too much. 
He plays video games all day. 
Thor is depressed…
…because Thor has been through a gigantic, life-altering tragedy.
And he feels responsible. 

In the audience I was in, sure, some people were laughing.  But initially, the audience was in shock, and the laughter was reflective of this.  I was in shock, too; I couldn’t believe they’d done it.  They took that Greek God and made him into a fat drunk?  How could they?  How dare they!  How bold. This is crazy, CRAZY, but also, GIVE ME BACK MY THOR!!

Some of the laughter was uncomfortable laughter.  Why so uncomfortable, everyone? Does  Thor, God of Thunder, suddenly remind you of someone you know, maybe?  An uncle, a dad, an older brother... me?  you?  

Quickly, though, the audience (my son and I included)  felt  for Thor.  My son is 11, and a number of times he leaned over and said, “Poor Thor!!”  He’s so sad!!”  and then I let the tears come. Because for me, as a parent, it’s really important that my son cares about other people’s feelings.  So we felt this huge sadness for Thor, and then in the very next moment, we were laughing again... because that's life. It is sad, and sublime, and absurd, all at once. 

Look, Marvel did get some cheap laughs at Thor's expense, because that's what those particular characters (Tony Stark, Rocket Racoon) would do. Honestly, are those two characters NOT gonna say something, with Thor in that shape? They're jerks, they're gonna say something.   

But Marvel's aim was not to laugh at fat folks... no.  It was to show us someone who's gone through something extremely painful, and come out the other side changed.   And I’m here to tell you, this is a harsh truth of life. 

Sometimes we need a laugh in  order to interrupt the eerie feeling ...that maybe life is going to change us, too.  Or, that it already has. 

Those of us who’ve been through a thing or two, like Thor, laughed because… yep, that’s life!  Whatcha gonna do?  That’s me. That’s my spouse. That’s my dad, my sister or brother, my best friend.  That’s us. 

OH, and quick PSA about seeing a film:

We go into a theater for one reason, and one reason only:
to be shown a MIRROR.

WHEN YOU GO INTO A THEATER
AND THE STORY MAKES YOU LAUGH 
YOU ARE NOT LAUGHING “AT” SOMEONE’S EXPENSE, BECAUSE THAT “PERSON” IS IMAGINARY!

TO LAUGH “AT” SOMEONE ON THE SCREEN  OR ON THE STAGE
IS TO LAUGH AT ONE’S SELF.

I kinda can’t believe I have to explain this - that Thor isn’t real?  But… yeah.  Sorry, movie fans, he’s not.  When we laugh at Thor, we’re not laughing at a real, live fat person!

To laugh at Thor is to laugh at ourselves. 

And not for nothing, his body did not automatically go back to being perfect when he got his ‘mojo’ back!  Because life isn’t like that, either!  Someone over at Marvel should get a metal for this idea, quite honestly.  Because sometimes, yes, you’re just rockin’ an extra 50 pounds, for a while. One the greatest takeaways, as the meme suggested, is that being depressed and in pain does not make Thor (you) any less worthy.  In the end, he still had the stuff!   Because he still had his gigantic, god-like HEART. 

AGAIN: we sit inside a theater to be shown a mirror. 

Thor isn't real.
To laugh at Thor is to laugh at myself.
To feel bad for Thor is to feel bad for myself.
To love Thor - no matter what - is to love myself. 

As someone who's been through tremendous pain, myself, and changed in many ways (physically, emotionally, spiritually, and all the rest)... I was relieved.  I am someone who, despite any changes to my appearance, is still worthy of love. And so are you. 

For those of you non-storyteller people reading this, here's a secret: 
Storytellers 
are taking ya'll to CHURCH!  
LOVE THYSELF, we keep whispering to you, YOU ARE WORTHY.  YOU ARE MAGIC. YOU ARE GODS. 
Depressed, anxious, and in pain…it’s OK. 

You are still worthy, because you’re made of stardust, and Love is your birthright.

Storytellers don’t make jokes.
​If an audience laughs, it's because you need to laugh, and the storyteller has somehow earned that laugh. 
What we're really doing, whenever possible, is telling the truth.
How you interpret that… is up to you.

Recently, I saw a Facebook Watch video about regret by Richard Mulloland, and thought it was all very good, sound advice.  The up-shot?  "Don't die filled with regrets about all the stuff you didn't do!"  Here's the link if you're curious. 
The message seems like a no-brainer to me:  try new things, even scary or difficult things. Do what you want, and have fun. Love. Live. 

Duh...  

This video has something like 10 million views. I wonder, percentage-wise, how many view this talk and actually heed his advice?  How many will actually go out there and try something new, or try something hard, or try something big?  People (in my experience) tend to stay super, super close to what is easy and known. So much so, I have to wonder if it's biologically hard-wired; maybe sticking with what you know helps you not get eaten by a saber-toothed tiger.

But why?  

This staying-where-it's-safe thing seems to go hand-in-hand with another animal kingdom altruism:  Stay with the herd. It's safer than being outside of it.  

That's when it hit me.  Maybe this message is a no-brainer to me, because I've never had a herd.

When you grow up feeling like an outsider in almost every arena of your life (as I did), the herd mentality doesn't even compute.  To an outsider, a herd is a threatening group; a group that would feel better if you didn't exist.  The up-side is, when you're living on the outskirts, you not only learn to rely on yourself, you also learn to stop being afraid of fitting in. Because you were never, ever going to. 

For me, probably starting as early as 3rd or 4th Grade, doing weird or odd things (outside the norm) was a normal, daily activity. In the 5th Grade, alone, I was really into reading books that had specifically been banned by the Nazis (even if I didn't really understand them), I spent long hours painting abstract landscapes, I adapted and directed a cross-cultural and gender-bent productions of Alice in Wonderland, and I spent copious hours memorizing passages from Macbeth.  It was weird. I was weird. To others. To me, it felt normal. And it still does. In fact, trying to act 'normal' around normal people is the only time I don't feel like I fit in. Because when I do that, I don't fit in with me. 

For most people, stepping into the unknown isn't just about trying something new, it's about the hard, scary, vulnerable feeling that if you do so, your herd might not approve.  Such daring requires not only a willingness to fail, and a level of comfortability with vulnerability, it requires you to be willing to fall, face-first, in front of a large crowd of your 'peers'.  And your herd, should they disapprove, might just kick you out. 

So, as I see it, most people die having regrets not only because they had a fear of doing new things. It's because they had a pathological fear of looking bad in front, and ultimately losing, their herd.  Think about that: most people would rather have a ton of regrets about stuff they never tried, than look less-than "cool" for a single, solitary minute. 

And yeah, you know what? I'm sure I've looked stupid, more than once. I'm sure some have laughed at me, behind my back. But guess what? I don't care. Those people are not my people. And trying stuff has never cost me a thing.  

I do honestly hope that Mr. Mulloland's speech inspires people. If just .01% of the 10 million viewers actually made a point to step outside their comfort zone, tomorrow -make a friend who's a different color than you, make a piece of art, investigate a new religion, or hike a trail even though you've never hiked, and hate nature- just imagine the ripple effects from that! Wouldn't that be something? What would a world, with that many intentional non-conformists, with that many adventuresome people in it, even look like?  Kinda staggering to think about. 

If you're thinking about following Mr. Mullholland's advice, stepping out of your comfort zone and being brave, take it from an outsider: you have nothing to lose. Fitting in with the herd is an illusion. Anyone who'd kick you out, or laugh at you for trying?  They were never your people to begin with.

At this point in my life, I can honestly say, I have no regrets. I've done, seen, and loved plenty, and I fully intend to keep trying, and falling flat on my face (sometimes, spectacularly!) for the rest of my life.  Because that's the fun stuff. Everything else is just a waste of time. 

CARPE DIEM, FRIENDS. 
NO REGRETS. 

The truth is, no class can make you a writer.  No seminar can, either.  No guru.  No text. They can inspire you to do better, but they cannot make you a writer. 

Okay, maybe knowing Aristotle's poetics can help. Maybe reading "Save the Cat" taught me some things. 
But what really improves writing... is thinking about doing it, and then doing it. Over, and over, and over. 

How do I know this? 

Because I cannot look back at any particular class or seminar I've ever taken and say, "Wow, that really took my writing to the next level."  No.  The repetition of writing, and the study of other things I like (and why I like them), and then more writing... these things have improved my writing. Period.   

A word about being on a "creative journey": this is a nonsense phrase, and I reject it, entirely.  This is a phrase somebody make up to sell you something.  You're not on a journey.  There is no end-of-the-rainbow.  If you're writing, you're on a life-long slog. It's not a race, or a marathon, because again, those things have an end. When you're a writer, The End is when you die. 

If writing comes flowing out of you, ideas come kicking and screaming out of you, and you can't stop them from coming, and they come out insisting for an audience in the larger world... then you are a writer. 

If you think you might 'try it out' for a while and 'see what happens' and then 'move on to something else' if it 'doesn't work out'... NO.  Just, no.  I'm sorry, but you are not a writer.  You are wasting your time, and you should probably go find something else to do with your time.  Like bungie jumping. Or gardening.  Or helping out at your local soup kitchen. 

Because frankly it take a long time to get going. It takes a long, long time of writing into the void before 'something happens'.  You cannot know this, of course, until you get going, and you see how impossibly long of a slog it is!  So I'm writing this to save you some valuable time.  Like people always say to actors, "If you can imagine yourself doing anything else... go do it."  It's like that. 

BUT.... if you spend weeks hating yourself because you can't seem to sit down and put any of your thoughts down, or you haven't had a decent idea in weeks and you're tempted to drown this hateful sorrow in a bottle of Jameson... then you are a writer.  A frustrated one, perhaps, but a writer, nonetheless. If you can go whole years without a great idea, and then have a great idea, and then execute it... you are a writer. 

If you spend time practicing when you're not inspired -- writing dumb stuff like blog posts and perfectly crafted work emails, in-between bursts of lucid creativity -- that also makes you a writer.  If you spend days, also, procrastinating about this practicing, but then eventually you do sit down to practice, that also makes you a writer. 

Basically, if the primary goal of your brain is to make things out of words, things that yesterday did not exist, and you are sullen and frustrated when you're not doing that... then you are a writer.  If the primary goal of your brain is to 'work on something that will make me rich and famous like J.K. Rowling' ... stop.  Just stop, and go into hedge funds. 
 
And it doesn't matter if you write every day, or not.  I used to; now, not so much. I'm still productive, all the same. What actually matters is that you can't stop thinking about it, and when you're not doing it you wish you were doing it, and that then eventually you do find time to do it.   And there must always be some writing - and editing- that happens whether or not you feel inspired. And those things must happen without perfection.  Especially once you've begun something, but the bloom of inspiration is off the rose; you must finish it.  Otherwise, what are you doing? 

Lots of writers wonder: how do you find the time?  If you're not independently wealthy, and you have a job and kids and shit?  You just do.  You dig it up; you unearth it. You beg, borrow and steal that time.  You turn off the internet, or go someplace where you don't know the wifi password and it's not written on the wall.  And then you make something with that time.  Not another angry FB post addressed to someone you don't know, not a meme (unless that's your thang), not giving up to go make the beds or do the dishes; but making a real THING with words that wan't there before you began. 

Do not let anyone tell you that there is a such thing as a "creative journey".  That phrase is an empty platitude meant to sell you something (a seminar, or a book), and it means nothing. There is no field of wildflowers for you to go running through as your stories come effortlessly forth from a magical fairy pen; that is bullshit. There is no beginning, middle, or end of this process, like there is on a hero's journey.  It's not a journey because it never ends.  Or, forgive me, it ends when you die. 

"But what about when I get an agent?" 
"But what about when I sell my first thing?" 
"But what about when I win my first Emmy?"  
"Isn't that the 'end' of my creative journey?" 

No.  NO.  Unless somehow miraculously your words dry up after you win that Emmy, and all you want to do is sit in a rocking chair and pet cats or dogs from then on, NO.  There is no end to it. It is not a hero's journey.  You write hero's journeys, but as a writer, you do not live them.   

Look. Writing is like living on a rollercoaster you can't get off of, and you didn't choose to get onto, in the first place.  Most of the rollercoaster is that flat, boring part.  And nobody's going to stop it, and let you off.  So you ride through the flat, boring part, over and over and over... but if you can sit down at a computer, or with a pen and paper, when you're at the crest of the enormous hill, the almost-falling part, and write, when you're afraid and shaking, begging to be released, a childish, crying mess... then you've got something.  And then, you also have to write when you're on that flat, boring part, too.  And edit while you're down there, too.  You have to learn to do both.  Because if you only doing one, and not the other, your audience can tell.  It's inside the writing, and they won't want to read it if you haven't written during both, during the whole ride, and during the next one that's coming, and the next, and the next.   

And here's another "perk":  If you're doing it right, if you are creating stories with an aim towards giving people purpose and hope, you must be able to see that MAYBE there might not be a point to life, in the first place.  You are instilling people with purpose and hope.  Which means they might not have it, to begin with.  And they might not have it, because there might not be any inherent purpose, to life.  Which means, as a writer, you sometimes will walk around knowing in your bones that none of it matters.  This, friends, is a heavy burden, and if you can walk away now and do something else, go do it.  Because walking around trying to instill hope and purpose is tough enough, without knowing, deep down, if there is a purpose?  Oy.  That's a dichotomy that's hard to live with. 

Look.  If there is a Kingdom of God, and I automatically get to go there when I die because I didn't murder or rape anybody, I'll beg to be forgiven for the sin of not thinking that life was all about getting to Heaven.  And then I'll probably be forgiven, because that seems Godly.  Though, I think that probably this isn't the way it works.  At all.  The way it probably works is that tiny nugget of hope inside me that clings to the childish idea that there is a heaven, is the heaven I'm thinking of.  That the tiny piece of me that still writes to instill hope and purpose, despite that nagging feeling that it's all for nothing, that feeling is God.  And the only way to live in the Kingdom of God is to live in it, now, when there is energy in my veins and stories in my heart.  And the only way to live in that Kingdom of God forever, is to live in it NOW, so strongly, and use my gifts so vehemently, that my energy becomes immortal. And when the ashes of my body are spread out over the Pacific Ocean, the fish will take a nibble, and the man who catches and eats that fish will get a taste, and hope and purpose will be in the fish, and the man, and the ocean, and my life's work will be more than just words on the page, but the work of life and living that never ends. 

For the past couple years, I've had lots of irons in the fire.  I've won some awards for my writing, I've written short film scripts, teleplays, stage plays, screenplays, and an entire novel.  I've written for blogs and created text for published books, and I now have a manager shopping around one of my TV projects (EVOLUTION). And I haven't stopped creating, for longer than a few days at a stretch; in fact, a new TV project (TWIRL) is up for a spot at Table Read My Screenplay at Sundance. Right now, I'm gearing up to write a short film with a director-friend of mine, to be shot in 2018; amazingly, funding is already in place.  

But, in many ways, I am still nowhere.  I have yet to turn any of these 'irons' into ... whatever blacksmiths make. Horse shoes?  Axes?   All of the things that iron can be made into.  I've made nothing, contributed nothing to the national conversation.  I'm still in the shop, pounding away, sweating profusely, with "nothing" to show for it. 

It begs the question... why do I keep doing this? 

Much like every other human being I've ever met, I feel certain at times that no one cares about what I have to say, or what I think is cool, yet I keep writing and talking, anyways.  I feel lonely, so I reach out with words in an effort to connect.  I'm afraid of embarrassing myself, but equally afraid to be boring, or plain, or obscure.  And I'm constantly asking myself, Why?   Why do I feel like telling stories, in the first place?  Why do I have characters and situations rolling though my brain, all day long? Isn't that crazy?  And how come I keep subjecting myself to disappointment?  I've been writing seriously for the better part of a decade, and I'm still not making my living from all of this.  What on earth makes me keep going?  

The answer, for any of you who might be struggling with the same, is... I have no idea. I have no idea why I keep going. I enjoy the characters in my head; is that so wrong?  I feel a deep sense that I'm not 'seen' in our media, so I push characters out there who I relate to; isn't that what writers (and other artists and creators) do?  I feel a sense of duty to talk bout the things I think are real, and true, (spiritually) in this life... is there really any difference between me, and a priest, a rabbit, or a guru?  (Those guys aren't considered crazy; yet... I mean... they are totally believing in something no one can explain, or prove!)   Spielberg and Abrams, they aren't crazy.  So, neither am I.  I'm in the game, but still on the verge.  Maybe I'll always be on the verge?  Sure, that's a risk.  It continues to feel like a tightrope walk.  But stopping doesn't feel like something I could do, either.  So, I soldier on.  Stopping, at this point, would feel like defeat.  Which, frankly, scares me more than the reality: that while I may fall down, falling down means I'm in the arena, which means I can always get back up again, and keep fighting.  (BTW, here's a great Medium piece on fear of failure, and why it keeps most people from having what they truly want.)

Every beginner creates with a healthy balance of self-doubt, inner drive, enthusiasm, and resolve. You'd think that established creators simply drop the self-doubt piece, but from what I've heard, some do, but some don't.  So for an intermediate like myself, the question isn't about why I keep doing it, or should I keep doing it.   At this point, it's simply a question of stamina.   Do I have the stamina to keep creating, until something comes of it? 

​At this stage, friends, I gotta tell you: it's day-to-day.  But I still feel I'm the most myself when I'm reaching out with my feelings, and words. When I'm engaged, and trying to be heard, seen and understood.  When I'm trying to connect.  

Perhaps nothing ever has to come from any of this... so long as I'm doing my best to connect. To reaching out with my feelings, and saying, "Don't you feel like this, too?" 

 FUGUE STATE
by Cara Winter 
Inspired by the play MISTER FUGUE, by Liliane Atlan 
 
Fugue State  (definition):  "... a rare psychiatric disorder characterized by reversible amnesia for personal identity, including the memories, personality, and other identifying characteristics of individuality."  ~ Wikipedia

ACT ONE 
SCENE ONE
 
LIGHTS UP ON: 
The Make America Great Again Detention Centers of America (Now Great Again)
a desert outside Las Vegas, NV in the  not-too-distant future 
night
The Detention Center is empty, save for four children who have been hiding in the sewers and surrounding desert. They have been on their own for so long, they are now like wild animals in almost every way, except they are human children: 
JUAN  (brown)
SARAI  (a different brown)
KEVIN (black)
OLIVIA  (sort of white but not really)

A man (BEN, white, 30-45) walks into view.  He is carrying a Nintendo 3DS, and a brown paper sack. 
Another man (JOHN, white, 25-30) in a uniform enters behind him, tapping him on the shoulder. They whisper to each other.

BEN:  John, I told you to fucking stay out of sight!
JOHN:  Yeah, dude, but I forgot to give you this.

John hands him a gun, concealed in a bag.

BEN:  A gun?! They’re kids; I won’t need this.
JOHN:  Dude, their parents were illegals, Muslims, blacks… you can never be too careful.

Ben takes the gun.

BEN:  Fine, Jesus Christ.  Now get lost, alright? 

John exits.

Ben sits down on an overturned garbage can, and begins to play his Nintendo, with the volume all the way up.  After a few moments, we see a child’s head (JUAN) popping up out of a nearby sewer cover.  Ben pretends not to notice it, absent-mindedly grabs a  potato chip out of the bag with one hand, trying to beat the game with only one hand.  Juan approaches him. 

JUAN:  You’ve gotta keep both hands on that thing. You gotta, you're gonna miss the-- you've gotta catch those, dude, and you're running out of power, so -- watch out!  Watch out, you're gonna --- 

The game 'bleep-bleeps' indicating Ben has lost. 
JUAN:  --lose.  Moron.  

Ben glances at Juan, and then puts both hands back on the Nintendo.  He plays again, more feverishly, and Juan becomes involved in the outcome, jumping up and down, pumping his fist, etc.

Two other children (KEVIN and OLIVIA) emerge from their hiding places, drawn by the sounds of the game, and/or the food.

KEVIN:  Can I see?  Lemmie see. 
OLIVIA:  There are no grownups.  Should be no grownups. Only kids. Grownups hung and shot, fucking hung and shot, or just raped and shot and then taken away. Or just taken away, maybe raped there. Wait, is there food in there? 

Olivia peers into the bag beside Ben. 
OLIVIA:  Chips!  O.M.G., shit, can I have some?
 
Ben nods absent-mindedly.  Olivia begins to eat as though she's never seen food before. 
KEVIN: Lemmie have some! 

Kevin grabs the bag away; Olivia and Kevin fight over the food.  
Ben has now allowed Juan to play his Nintendo.  The children are in heaven. 

Finally, SARAI emerges.  She wears a tattered headscarf; she is the most elder of the children. 
SARAI:  Stop!  All of you!  Olivia!  Kevin! Juan!  Go back to into hiding, you idiots, this could be a trap! 

From out of nowhere, John and a second soldier (DAVID) grab the children, pointing guns at them. Ben also grabs one of the children, and brandishes his gun.

DAVID:  Hands up, kids.  You’re illegal and you're coming with us.



*** 
AUTHOR'S NOTE: 
This play is derivative of a copyrrighted work by the late playwright Liliane Atlan.  Please email me directly if you are interested in staging this play, so that we may discuss rights & fees with the copyright holder of the original piece.